Dear Lover,
Our
love was a dead season of winter,
a cave of hibernation in
which we were unseen.
I hated that you never
replaced my Listerine,
and I knew freedom like the
Jews knew Hitler.
A secret passage from here
to hell,
in which you distract me
with the happy things.
In the shower, where we
used to sing
I knew love to be our
blinded braille.
We were a star scribbled in
erasable color pencil,
ignoring that we had far more years than nine.
I realized that you were no
longer my Valentine,
and weren’t adult enough to
make art without stencils.
I came across your name and
began to choke,
two months, twelve days,
ten hours since we spoke.
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